Here's To The Boy King
by LadyFireCat and LittleMissMartini
Summary: Pulled from the many memories of Mary, a tale of the little rajah who lorded over the manor simply because he could. Or was there another reason?


**DISCLAIMER: Yeah, so I don't own the Secret Garden blah, blah, blah. Haha so here is my, I think, fourth installment of the Secret Garden Memories collection? Oh, and what now. There's NO BOLD! I'm so proud of myself. There you go Prongs lol. **

**As You Wish : **

**C**olin Craven, a headstrong, impudent boy who was lord of his home while his father was away. I remember first walking in upon him, and he was neither foreboding nor gave off any air of he who was strong and majestic. He was a pathetic, pale, little thing who was sobbing as though his heart would shatter, upon a marvelous four-poster bed. He saw me staring at him and shot bolt upright, quivering like a frightened mouse, clad in a thin nightshirt. His eyes were what had startled me, beautiful, strange gray eyes lashes with a heavy fringe of midnight-black. Silly as we were, believing in ghosts and goblins, he asked me if I was a ghost.

"I don't think so," I had replied doubtfully, cautiously. I had stayed at a safe distance, lingering, wondering. What on earth was this strange boy doing locked up in a dark room? He held out a plaintive hand, beckoning me to come closer. We had exchanged names cautiously, sitting and staring at one another. We sat up the whole night until dawn crept slowly under the cracks of the windows that he kept so tightly shut. This mysterious boy told me of his ill future, of his poor health, and of his life in a shut up room far from the rest of the world. Nobody even knew he existed, and quite frankly, nobody cared. He was pale and as skinny as anything, and he had large dark shadows under his eyes. His appetite was not enough to suffice even the smallest flea. I, in turn, spoke of the outside world he did not wish by all means to venture. I told him of India, and in this he was greatly interested. This puzzled me, for I had always detested the dull heat and dry climate. England and the moors were like a haven for me, where everything was wet, green, and alive.

We were getting along quite marvelously when a shocked Mrs. Medlock and a scowling Dr. Craven stumbled in and ruined the fun, as most adults do. But Colin's power was lovely, and though he said that they could not wait for him to die, they seemed to care extraordinarily for him. Every little moan or gasp would send about fifteen people running, carrying various bottles of medicines and tubes and pipes and other strange sort of rubbish. It occurred to me after some time that Colin was not ill at all. He could walk and do everything any normal boy could do, if he felt to. I suppose cousins think alike, for I used to be exactly like Colin. Catered to my every whim, only to please the greater people, our parents. He _wanted_ to be shut up in an ornately decorated room all day long; he _liked_ throwing fits whenever he could not get what he wanted. Years of fussing and such nonsense had trained the staff of the manor to come running, to rush about bringing this and that, just because they were scared of this pathetic little boy…a boy whose only power given to him came by upsetting his father; a boy who could not even dress himself or tie his own shoes.

But no matter, thought I. I shall have a glorious time. Ah, how very wrong I was indeed. The first few days were rather becoming. A daily schedule had been mentally written. I would waltz in and throw open the window and fuss about him. Tell him that he should get fresh air, walk, eat, and such things. This made him pleased that he had added another sort of minion, I suppose, into his "collection." We would then talk about the Garden. He was interested in this, and more so in Dickon. Breakfast came round nine o'clock. A great trolley was wheeled into the room, steaming dishes covered with metal covers. How the manor meals ended up more like banquets, I'll never know. Kippers, eggs, bacon, toasted bread, toasted tomatoes, potatoes, clotted cream, tea, hot cocoa, whipped cream, Devonshire cream, great round sausages, crusty French bread, butter, jam, honey, molasses, chocolate, all the wonderful foods that you could never possibly imagine. And all this glorious stuff would enter, and leave with…oh, perhaps two kippers missing here, an English muffin half gone, a tiny bite off the end of sausage, a small teaspoon of Devonshire cream gone there, and nibble of toast spread thinly with butter and honey. Nearly full cups of still steaming hot cocoa with melting whipped cream. All this food, I soon came to understand, was just there to serve as a physical menu for Colin. He could choose whatever he liked without screaming that he wanted something else, because everything was already there. I was present to this astonishing presentation of manners, or lack of.

The maid, Estella something-or-other, cautiously pushed in the cart one gray, dull morning. Colin had taken the china cover off of a small bowl of really very beautiful steaming potatoes. He had sniffed them, and then slammed the cover back on.

"Where," he demanded, "is the grape marmalade?" How this came up from merely glancing at a bowl of potatoes is a mystery, but then again, Master Colin was full of them. The maid looked frightened, and began to clamor about, lifting covers and searching frantically for the grape marmalade. She finally emerged, holding a small sauce bowl of jelly.

"There is no grape marmalade at the moment, Master Craven," she whispered, her voice quavering. "But won't you taste a bit of blackberry jelly? It tastes just the same." At this point, the veins in Colin's neck began to stand out and two pale spots of color appeared on his almost-white cheeks,

"Liar," he thundered. "Don't you lie to me! I _know_ what the difference is between grape marmalade and blackberry jelly." He glared at her, and she averted her eyes, trembling. His eyes blazed.

"I know what you're trying to say, whatever-your-name-is. You're calling me stupid. Is that it? Yes? Admit it, and don't dare lie again. You think that j-just because I-I'm going to _die_, I'm s-s-stupid?" He gasped for breath and he flung himself into his pillows and enormous racking sobs began to shake his body. The maid began rushed to comfort him.

"Of course not," she gasped, trying to console him and herself at the same time. "That isn't what I'm saying at all. I'll get grape marmalade right this minute, all right?" She scurried away, leaving Colin sobbing into his bed sheet. He emerged a while after the maid's racing pitter-patter of footsteps died away down the hall, his face wet with tears, gulping. Presently I came forward and just looked at him, which was what I always did to my Ayah when I felt she was being obstinate, and this made her uncomfortable. Soon enough, Colin began to squirm, and looked down.

"Why must you have grape marmalade?" I inquired. "Is there even a grape marmalade anyway?" Colin glared at me.

"Of course there is," he had snapped. But he averted my eyes. But there was grape marmalade, this I found out when the maid thundered into the room, still wearing her cotton overcoat dotted with the morning dew and moor mist. She handed me a pretty jar of the marmalade, with the gingham cloth and ribbon still tied about the top. Apparently she had ridden across the moor and into town to fetch it, fearful of being sacked. But near this time, Colin had busied himself by clanging down dishes and china in contempt, and rather had lost interest in his former fit about the lack of fruity spread. On the contrary, he was rather irritable when the maid interrupted his playing of dishes and covers.

"You may go," he snapped, and the maid backed out of the room. Days went on like this, but soon he became questionable of the garden. Dickon had been sent to fetch him, and the very first time out into the fresh world surprised him very much. His first miracle was displayed there, out of reach from the rest of the world, the three of us and the animals tucked away in a cozy little place that had been locked up and forgotten for more than ten years. The clean smell of freshly dug earth and of the misty moor floating in over the walls had certainly revived him. But the miracle, the miracle came to us in the form of Colin's legs.

He had learned to walk.

I suppose this came from the confrontation of Ben Weatherstaff, who had called him a cripple. People like Colin do not take insults very well, and flare up and immediately try and prove them wrong. And that's just what the little rajah did. His voice was high, thin, and cold as he ordered Dickon to help him up from his seat. My poor Dickon rushed forward, very much bewildered.

"Look at me!" Colin had thundered, throwing his shoulders back, his strange and beautiful eyes flashing in contempt. "Do I look like a cripple? Do I look like one? Well? Do I?" Old Ben Weatherstaff had gone so completely silent for a few minutes that I thought he had had a heart attack.

"Aye," he whispered. "Thou art not a cripple. Thou art not a cripple." It was strange to see this rough, unaffectionate man suddenly shake, tears leaking into his gingery beard.

"Thou art not a cripple," he repeated, breaking into a somewhat watery smile. Colin, meanwhile, had settled back into his wheelchair, apparently tired from being a miracle worker.

"Oh, bring him in," he had said, waving his hand. Dickon and I suppressed smiles. Here he was, just finished the biggest miracle we have seen yet, and he had resumed so quickly into Master Colin of Misselthwaite that it was comical.

"As you wish," Dickon gasped and hurried to open the door so Colin would not see him burst into silent fits of laughter. Of course as he wished. Everything was as he wished. He wished to walk and it happened. But this time, it was not a bad thing


End file.
